


One's not half of two; two are halves of one

by ben_jaded



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied Relationships, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-05-24 00:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14944103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ben_jaded/pseuds/ben_jaded
Summary: T’Challa feels the world fall away, his only anchor is those eyes burning into his.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pastelfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelfeathers/gifts).



> Thanks for the great prompt anarielle. I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> I would also like to thank [Galaxiaa7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galaxiaa7/pseuds/Galaxiaa7) for the handholding. I was struggling with that final scene, but you managed to get me through it.
> 
>    
> I’m a nerd and actually did some research for this fic.
> 
> Things to know:  
> achromatic: means “without color”. So everyone in this au has achromatopsia (they’re colorblind and only see in shades of grey) until they meet their soulmate and their world is filled with color.  
> trichromat: people with normal color vision  
> spectrum: visible color spectrum aka the colors of the visible light spectrum (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, or purple)  
> The bonding process: eye contact, first touch, first kiss, 6 months for bond to settle
> 
>  
> 
> The title is from a poem by E.E. Cummings. 
> 
> You can find a fanmix filled with cheesy romantic songs [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/dekadai/playlist/1i6vfT03kWx0DOHgMpqybC?si=eNpHzZgTSRaxaF2xvzmuqg).

 

_There's something 'bout you_  
_That makes my skies blue_  
_And whenever we're through_  
_All I can do is see color_  
_There's something 'bout us_  
_When we're together_  
_Whenever you're there, everywhere_  
_I see color_

_-"Colors" by Todrick Hall_

**I.**

T’Challa knows all about colors. He’s never seen them of course, since he has always been Achromatic.  
  
The idea of colors seems ludicrous to him. Every color that he sees is just another variation of grey. How can there be anything else beyond the differing shades of grey he is accustomed to seeing? There can’t be.  
  
T’Challa is skeptical that colors exist at all. But like every Wakandan, he learns about them.  
  
Though he sees the sky as a light grey, he knows that it is a radiant blue during cloudless days when the yellow sun shines the brightest; though trees are dark grey, their barks are greyish brown, their foliage a bright green; his skin and eyes are a darker shade of grey, but he knows that his skin is a rich shade of mahogany, his eyes a deep shade of umber. At least that’s what the Trichromat who teaches color theory tells him.  
  
He wonders if he’ll ever see the assortment of crimson, coral, and burnished gold of a Wakandan sunset, or the medley of marigold yellow, light orange, and periwinkle lilac that makes up a sunrise. As he looks out at the whole of Birnin Zana from Mount Bashenga, all he sees is scattered clouds streaked in shades of grey as the white ball that is the sun sinks slowly on the horizon.  
  
T’Challa sighs onto his raised knees, turns his head to ask his Baba, "What if you're broken? What if you never see colors?"  
  
His father looks away from the sunset, chin resting on a propped elbow as he stares down at him pensively. “You are not broken T’Challa,” his father answers calmly, “Everyone has a soulmate.”  
  
“So what do you do if you never meet them?” T’Challa asks morosely. “What if you're Achromatic forever?”  
  
His Baba sighs, pats T’Challa on the head. “You make a life with someone who isn't your soulmate.”  
  
T’Challa knows that both his parents are Achromatic. But his father knows so much about colors it's almost as if he's had first-hand experience. Like he’s _seen_ the Spectrum.    
  
T’Challa frowns, plucks at the cuff of his shirt. “So does that mean I don't need a soulmate?”  
  
“You do not need a soulmate to live,” Baba answers, fingers curling around T’Challa’s nape, “Some people stay Achromatic their entire lives. But they make the best of it. Not everyone is lucky enough to meet their soulmate, my son.”  
  
“Is that what you and Mama did?” he asks curiously, “make the best of it?”  
  
There is a long pause before his father replies, a wistful expression coloring his features. “I haven't always been Achromatic, T’Challa.”  
  
T’Challa gasps, stares up at him wide-eyed. “You used to be a Trichromat?”  
  
“Yes,” his father replies sadly, “but that was a long time ago.”  
  
“What was it like,” T’Challa asks, resting his head on Baba's chest, “meeting your soulmate?”  
  
His Baba looks sad. As if it hurt to remember. T’Challa feels a twinge of guilt. It must hurt to have your colors taken away.  
  
“It is hard to explain,” his father replies, “there was an explosion of color. The world lit up. It was as if I was truly seeing for the first time. Everything was more vibrant. The need to find your other half is soothed. The feeling of belonging is indescribable.”  
  
T’Challa nuzzles at his chest. “How will I know when I've found the one?”  
  
Baba pulls him in close, arm tight around his slim shoulders. “You will know the second your eyes meet.”  
  
T’Challa tilts his face upward, expresses his biggest fear. “Do you think I'll ever meet mine?”  
  
Baba squeezes his shoulder reassuringly, “I have no doubt that you will find your soulmate.”  
  
“How do you _know_?” T’Challa asks anxiously. “I could be one of those people who never meet theirs.”  
  
“Trust in me, my son,” his father answers, voice filled with conviction, “you will not be one of them. One day the world will no longer be the familiar shades of grey. It will be something else. Something filled with color. A world of brilliant hues. And the restlessness within you will settle. You will be whole.”  
  
“Okay Baba,” he whispers against his father’s chest.  
  
T’Challa is still skeptical. In a world of billions of people, the likelihood that he would ever meet his soulmate seems farfetched.

But the idea takes hold. If Baba says he has a soulmate, then T’Challa believes him. His Baba has never lied to him.

He could have a soulmate out there. Someone made just for _him_. He is both excited and anxious at the prospect of meeting the other half of his soul, the one who will complete him and fill the void inside of him, fill his world with color.

He wants it. He cannot wait for the day when he will meet the stranger who will finally allow him to see all the colors in the Spectrum.  
  
**II.**  
  
T’Challa witnesses a bonded pair meeting for the first time when he is fifteen years old.  
  
His best friend W’Kabi finds his soulmate after T’Challa introduces him to Okoye, one of the Dora Milaje trainees who will one day be part of his personal guard.  
  
They shake hands then they both leap apart. W’Kabi stumbles back a few steps. Okoye reaches for him, both hands gripping his forearms. There's a moment of silence as they both stand still, examining each other.  
  
“Colors,” W’Kabi murmurs under his breath.  
  
Then there's a flurry of motion as they both reach for each other smiling and laughing as they embrace and touch.  
  
T’Challa watches the exchange with bewilderment. At first, he isn't sure what he is witnessing. But when the realization does come, he's hit with such an intense wave of jealousy it's hard to get himself under control and be happy for them.  
  
And he does try to be happy for them, he really does. But envy eats away at him. He wants that. Wants to find his soulmate. He aches with the need to finally be whole.  
  
**III.**  
  
T’Challa falls for Nakia hard.  
  
But she is not his soulmate.  
  
He wishes with everything in him that she was.

Everyone in his inner circle is starting to find their soulmates, living their lives in the vibrant colors of the Spectrum.

The fear that he will be Achromatic for the rest of his life takes root. Maybe he doesn’t have a soulmate like everyone else. Maybe he will never know what it is like to experience the vibrancy of the Spectrum, see the world as it is meant to be seen.

Every day upon awakening, the first thing that he does is check the sky outside his window. He knows that sometimes it takes a while for the colors to come in. There are some reported cases of Trichromats having known each other for years before their colors come in.  
  
But every day, he opens his eyes to the charcoal ceiling of his bedroom, turns his head to the morning light. The sun remains a bright white sphere in the grey Wakandan sky.  
  
He wants so badly to feel that rush of euphoria of meeting his soulmate for the first time, of his world exploding into a kaleidoscope of color.  
  
It’s a hunger that takes a hold of him. There’s a constant ache in his chest that grows heavier day by day.

He is tired of being Achromatic. He wants to meet his soulmate.

  
**IV.**  
  
T’Challa witnesses a bond break when he is twenty-five.  
  
The search for his soulmate has led him outside of Wakanda. The idea that his soulmate isn’t Wakandan had eaten away at him. Soulmates are sacred within Wakanda’s borders. But he was unsure of how his people would react if his soulmate were an Outsider.  
  
He is in London, studying at Oxford for his second Ph.D. This time, it’s one in physics.  
  
He is having lunch with a fellow graduate student at an outdoor café when he hears the distant sound of metal crashing and glass shattering.  
  
By the time he and his classmate reach the scene, it’s a cacophony of chaos. A crowd of people were lining the sidewalks and spilling out into the road. In between the din of bystanders, ambulances and police sirens, is a woman cradling an unresponsive body. The sound she makes as the paramedics try to remove the body from her grasp is gut-wrenching.  
  
“My colors,” she screams in near hysterics, “my colors.”  
  
_Oh,_ T’Challa thinks as the reality of the situation settles over him. She is losing her soulmate.  
  
He fundamentally understands that when one half of a Trichromatic pair dies, the bond breaks. But it is the first time he is witnessing it first hand. Someone is losing their soulmate right in front of him. And he cannot imagine how that must feel, to have finally seen the Spectrum and have that taken away, to watch the colors drain away as the other half of your soul dies.  
  
He thinks back to his Baba, who has lived so many years without the other half of his soul. And T’Challa’s heart aches for him. He can’t imagine the anguish his Baba must have felt upon losing both his soulmate and the Spectrum.  
        
**V.**  
  
T’Challa is thirty years old, and he still hasn’t met his soulmate. His world is still a variation of one color: grey.  
  
He has long past the average age for meeting his soulmate, but he does not despair. He cannot. He won’t allow hopelessness or the aching loneliness to overtake him. He has a family that loves him, a people that adore him, and a country to protect. That is something a lot of people don't have. He has learned to make the best of his situation.  
  
Some part of him had thought ingesting the heart-shaped herb would make him a Trichromat. He has since learned, though the herb can fix many genetic issues, achromatopsia isn’t one of them.  
  
Researching colorbonds becomes a hobby.  
  
He learns that his father was right, Trichromats always come in pairs. Some are lucky to be born within the same country, to be within an appropriate age range. While others have to search the world to find theirs. It’s not uncommon for soulmates to have significant age gaps.  
  
Like everything else in life, there are anomalies to the system. And that’s what he mostly focuses his research on. For Achromatics like him who’ve passed the average age of twenty-five, the pervading theory is that their soulmate had either been born too early or too late and so their soulmates are dead. Some Achromatics live their entire lives never having met their other halves. There are those who are unfortunate to have made eye contact with a stranger in a crowd only to have their colors come in days later and so live the rest of their days never reuniting. There are Trichromats who remaining colorblind even after they’ve met their other half. There are cases of one half of a Trichromatic pair having found their soulmate only to find that their soulmate has already found theirs. There are also Trichromats who are born already with the ability to see the Spectrum.  

These cases help keep the hopelessness at bay, keeps despair from creeping in. There is a chance he might still meet his soulmate.

T’Challa still has his copy of the Science of Color, a guide given to every young Wakandan when they start learning color theory. It’s updated biannually, its pages are filled with relevant information on the Spectrum. Featuring scientifically proven and speculative theories, it explores the science behind how soulmates work. And boasts pages upon pages of hues categorized by color and their varying shades. Every now and then, he’ll flip through them, filled with morbid curiosity.  

There are over 10 million color combinations in the world. T’Challa would trade all that he has to see one shade beyond grey.  
  
**VI.**  
  
T’Challa has a bad feeling about Wakanda stepping out into the international stage and involving itself in the pettiness that is international politics. He is not a fan of diplomacy.  
  
He trusts his Baba and so ignores his intuition and accompanies him to the convention in Vienna. He stays vigilant though, his Panther senses on high alert. When he notices the bomb-sniffing dogs by the truck below, he only has a split second to yell, “Everybody get down.”  
  
He leaps for his Baba, but the trajectory of the blast blows him away and he ends up across the room. He’s disoriented, but the need to check on his father surges through him. Through the smoldering remains of the assembly floor, he crawls toward his Baba’s still body. He frantically checks his father’s pulse, first at his throat, then at his wrist.  
  
There isn’t any.  
  
As the dust and smoke settle, he sits in the ruins of the United Nations assembly, cradling his father’s unresponsive body in his arms. He rocks back and forth as tears stream down his face unchecked.  
  
He hadn’t trusted his intuition. He knows he should have. It is never wrong. And now his Baba is dead because of him.  
  
**VII.**  


The side of the interrogation room where Klaue is being held blows inward, chunks of concrete rains down in the aftermath of the explosion.  
  
A man wearing an Igbo Mgbedike opens fire, shattering the glass that separates the interrogation room from the rest of the CIA hideout. The spray of bullets ricochets across the room. The CIA agents who haven’t found cover in time are gunned down. As he pulls an agent toward him, T’Challa’s hears Klaue’s manic laughter as he makes his escape.  
  
The nanites of the new Black Panther habit crawl along his skin. He sees the grenade just after the masked man throws it. He launches his body on top of it without hesitation, sure that the suit will absorb the kinetic energy from the blast. He has lost too many loved ones recently, he will not be losing Nakia or Okoye today.  
  
He gives chase, pursues the masked man as he continues to shoot into the building. T’Challa plows through the doorway of the interrogation room, follows him out through the makeshift opening.  
  
He leaps, almost makes it to their getaway van. He hears the shot before he feels it, a bright burst of energy smashes into him. The suit absorbs most of the blast, but he’s still sent flying backward from the impact.  
  
The world is silent for a moment as he gets his bearings, his ears ringing from the blast. His mask dematerializes as he takes in deep ragged, breaths.  
  
As the masked man gets into the getaway van, the first thing T’Challa notices is the grey ring dangling from a chain around his neck. He would know that ring anywhere; it is a copy of the one he wears, the one his father had received from his own father Azzuri the Wise. Dazedly, his eyes travel upward.  
  
T’Challa knows who this man is the moment his eyes lock with the man wearing the Igbo Mgbedike.  
  
Time slows down.  
  
T’Challa feels the world fall away, his only anchor is those eyes burning into his.  
    
The world goes silent for a moment, then it falters. His senses come back online, and the intensity of it is a pain that forces him to inhale sharply, choke back a scream. His heartbeat increases to a rhythmic tempo. There is a hazy whiteness at the edges of his vision, and the longer he keeps his eyes open, the more it overtakes his sight. He blinks furiously, trying to limit the sensory input, but the brightness increases tenfold, blinds him, and forces him to close his eyes.  
  
When he reopens them, there’s an explosion of light. He winces, grabs his head as his vision swims, spots dancing in and out of the corners of his eyes. The sensory overload is too much.  
  
He leans against the nearest flat surface. His pulse is a dull roar in his ears. He can’t breathe. He’s overwhelmed, but he fights through the oversensitivity. He bends over, hands on his knees as he inhales a huge lungful of air and tries desperately not to vomit.

His breathing evens out gradually over the next few minutes. The pounding in his head subsides. There’s a warmth creeping throughout his body, setting his heart racing anew as he looks around properly. He rubs a gloved hand over his face. There are splashes of not-grey all around him.  
  
_Is this color?_ He thinks, as something akin to awe stirs in his chest as his eyes drink in his surroundings.  
  
When he looks up, the sky is _blue_.  
  
He hears Okoye before he sees her.  
  
Even as he is still reeling from the revelation that he does indeed have a soulmate, T’Challa wills his body to calm, wills his chaotic thoughts into order.  
  
The getaway van is long gone. And the man who has brought color into his life with it.  
  
**VIII.**  
  
As the Royal Talon makes its way back to Wakanda, T’Challa tries to not let panic set in, tries to pretend as if his entire world hasn’t just turned itself inside out.  
  
Slowly his heart rate settles down from the initial stages of panic and into something a little easier to handle. His head thumps against the vibranium walls of the airship as he leans back against it. After all these years, he has slowly been losing hope that he would ever see the Spectrum. The thought that he was one of those Achromatics whose soulmate was dead had become a pervading thought as year after year passes and he still hadn’t met his other half.  
  
The Spectrum is beautiful. The sheer amount of color is overwhelming. It saturates the world in a kaleidoscope of hues and shades.     
  
He is filled with elation at finally having found the other half of his soul. It means that he will no longer be alone, that he isn’t broken, that the dull ache that sits heavily in his chest will finally abate. His Baba had been right; there is someone out there made just for him. But at the same time, he has to take into account that his soulmate is in leagues with Klaue, an enemy of Wakanda.  
  
T’Challa might never see him again.  
  
**IX.**  
  
The colors start to slowly dissipate the farther he gets away from his soulmate, becoming duller the farther he gets away from Busan. Until it feels as if he’s never seen them at all. Until there’s only one hue left that he can see. The rest of his world returns to that aching greyscale.  
  
His heart aches at the thought of losing his colors just hours after finally seeing the Spectrum. He’s only known about the existence of his soulmate for a few hours, but already he feels like a piece of himself has been torn away. Never before has he felt an ache like this, loneliness that would not cease.  
  
Is this what his Baba’s life had been after he had lost his other half?  
  
He knows there are plenty of cases where one of a Trichromatic pair’s colors comes in over a few days after the initial contact. The eyes take a while to get used to the new shades and tones, the colors getting brighter and stronger as the days go by. But his case is the reverse.  
  
The fear that Klaue has killed his soulmate is continuously persistent. He can’t imagine going back to being Achromatic, his life all muted colors, spending the rest of it trying desperately to remember the colors he’d only had a glimpse of.     
  
He thinks back to his Baba’s death. The helplessness he had felt, not for the first time in his life, weighed heavily in his stomach.  
  
_I need to find him_ , T’Challa thinks, heart rate increasing as his fingers clench involuntarily at the vibranium bench, unsheathed claws puncturing the metal. Because Klaue was just this side of unstable and his soulmate’s life was in danger.  
  
**X.**  
  
T’Challa learns three things upon his return from South Korea: his cousin is his soulmate, the color that he sees is _brown_ , and that his father had killed his own soulmate.  
  
He’s spent thirty-five years longing for his soulmate. He can’t help but feel anger and resentment at what his father had denied him, taken from him and Erik.  
  
His father had to have known there was a possibility that his nephew was T’Challa’s soulmate. Especially since almost all Wakandans have a Wakandan soulmate. His own brother had been his. On some level, he must have suspected and still left Erik there, damned them both to a half-life. He could have met his soulmate as a child, they could have grown up together, neither experiencing that aching void of being half of a whole.  
  
The thought of his father killing his own soulmate fills T’Challa with both disgust and sorrow. The idea of harming his soulmate is anathema to him. But he is very well aware that not all colorbonds end happily, that there are cases of domestic abuse, of soulmates committing murder.  
  
The worst part is, he understands exactly why his Baba had done what he had. Because his Baba wouldn’t have done it unless he had felt it was necessary. He wouldn’t have deprived himself of his other half for anything other than Wakanda. T’Challa doesn’t know what he would do in a similar situation.  
  
He never wants to have to make that choice.     
  
**XI.**  
  
T’Challa knows the instant Erik is in Wakanda. Though the majority of the colors he sees are still in greyscale, the closer Erik gets, the more colors bleed back into his eyesight. They mingle with the greyscale, smear across his vision.  
  
The uneasiness he has felt about the fate of his soulmate eases. His anxiety lessens. He feels inexplicably lighter, as if a great weight has been lifted off his chest.  
  
There is no doubt now that Erik Stevens is his soulmate. He feels it. He knows it.  
  
T’Challa is both excited to have him so close and vexed that W’Kabi has chosen to flaunt protocol in bringing an Outsider directly into the heart of Wakanda. It is even more unprecedented that he is bringing that Outsider directly to the Royal Palace.  
  
As T’Challa sits with the other members of the Taifa Ngao, his mind runs to various scenarios of how this meeting can go. His soulmate has been in cahoots with a known enemy of Wakanda, has somehow found a way into the country even though its direct coordinates are unknown. He has also somehow managed to convince Wakanda’s head of security to escort him to the Golden City.  
  
His soulmate is dangerous. Ex-military, a former CIA agent. He is the definition of an Outsider. Though T’Challa doesn’t see himself giving up his soulmate for any reason, he cannot help but think of all the ways this can go wrong. His cousin cannot be here for any other reason than to air his father’s crimes to the Taifa Ngao. He is a wildcard and T’Challa does not know what his cousin wants other than vengeance. He cannot condemn him for seeking out revenge against those he feels have wronged him. After all, not even a week ago, T’Challa had been hell bent on taking out the Winter Soldier for the murder of his father.    
  
The scenario that terrifies him the most is being rejected by his soulmate. He has waited thirty five years to meet his other half. The very idea that he might be rejected is unfathomable, but the chance it might happen hangs over T’Challa.      
  
It takes everything in him to not react to how _vivid_ the world becomes as Erik is escorted into the meeting chamber by W’Kabi himself. T’Challa returns a cool impassive look to W’Kabi’s indifferent stare. He will deal with the implications of W’Kabi’s actions later. For now, all his attention shifts, focuses on the man who is the other half of his soul.  
  
A breath snags in his chest as their eyes meet and hold.  
  
All at once, his world erupts with vibrant light. The last vestige of grey is gone, obliterated by a blazing kaleidoscope of color. For a moment, he fears this will be another repeat of Busan. That the Spectrum will short circuit his brain once again. His vision narrows, the entire world falls away and all that matters right then and there are Erik’s eyes.  
  
His eyes are the most beautiful thing T’Challa has ever seen.  
  
He knows he is staring, but it is tough to look away.  
  
“Speak,” T’Challa orders, eyes never straying from his. And his cousin does. T’Challa is only half listening to Erik’s speech as his senses drink him in. His voice is deeper than T’Challa had expected it to be; goosebumps crawl along his skin. He is immediately hit with the need to know all its tones and inflections.

T’Challa frowns as Erik berates the council for not doing enough. For not caring enough. T’Challa almost wants to laugh at how disrespectful his cousin is being. It hasn’t even been a week since his father had died on the floor of the UN assembly for wanting to bring Wakanda out of isolation by signing the Sokovia Accords. T’Challa will concede that his cousin has valid points. Wakanda can do more to help the world, but he will not let him blame Wakanda for the rest of the world’s problems.  
  
“Enough,” he commands, motioning for the Dora Milaje to take him in hand, “escort him to my office.”      
  
Erik makes to lunge for him as the Dora Milaje surround him. “You think you can get rid of me that easily,” Erik snarls, fighting his restraints, “You’re just like your daddy.”  
  
“I am nothing like my father,” T'Challa answers coldly, “take him away.”  
  
**XII.**

  
That is not how T’Challa had envisioned their first meeting going.

It takes him two hours to explain exactly who Erik Stevens is to the Taifa Ngao. Nowhere in his explanation does he mention that they are soulmates.  


**XII.**  


T’Challa dismisses the two Dora Milaje guarding the entrance to his official public office. 

He finds Erik sprawled on a settee in the antechamber leading into it. Something in T’Challa’s blood sings at the sight of him. He let his eyes roam over him the way he wanted his hands to, slow and thoroughly. “I see you have made yourself comfortable.”

Erik glares as he stands. “Took you long enough.”

“I am sorry for keeping you waiting,” he replies apologetically as his eyes drinks Erik in, takes in the armored vest covering his chest, the camouflage pants, and combat boots. T’Challa fights the urge to rip them all off to get at the skin beneath. “I did not anticipate-”

“You tell ‘em all ‘bout your daddy’s dirty little secret,” Erik cuts in mockingly.

The air between them is thick with tension, T’Challa is fully aware that one of them is going to say the wrong thing and set the other off.

“Yes,” T’Challa answered, “What he did was beyond reprehensible.”

“Huh,” Erik says, something unreadable crosses his eyes before he blinks and lifts his chin. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

T’Challa advances toward him, no longer able to resist the pull of being so close to his soulmate. “As I stated, I am not my father.”

Something flashes across Erik’s face before it shuts down completely. “So you say.”

T’Challa cannot tell if Erik has received his colors. He has not given any indication that anything was different for him. And some part of T’Challa is scared that he will still become another statistic: a Trichromat whose other half does not match.

T’Challa frowns, “What are your intentions for coming here?”

“Can’t figure it out?” Erik answers tauntingly, “I came for the throne.”

T’Challa nods as Erik confirms what he has already suspected. Of course he is here for the throne. “What do you intend on doing once you are king?”

“I’m going to do what neither you or your daddy had the balls to do,” Erik snarls, eyes blazing with anger, “There are millions of people who look just like us, out there suffering while y'all sat back and did nothing. I’m gonna liberate them all.”

“And how exactly do you plan on accomplishing this?” T’Challa asks, already fearing the answer. It seems like his cousin has picked up where his father left off.

“Wakanda has the tools to free them all,” his expression hardens as he scornfully answers, “that’s the first thing I’m gonna do once you’re dead.”  

T’Challa flinches back, startled by the acidity in Erik’s voice. Is it possible that nothing has changed for him? That he still sees in greyscale while T’Challa’s world is vividly colorful? He needs to know.

His heart thundering in his chest, T’Challa takes a few steps toward Erik, rapidly closing the distance between them. Before T’Challa can touch him, Erik instinctively takes a few steps back.

“What are you doing?” Erik asks as he stares at T’Challa warily.

“Testing a theory,” T’Challa answers, moving to close the gap between them.  

“What does that have to do with you invading my personal space?” Erik demands, eyes narrowing as T’Challa continues to walk toward him. “Back off, bruh.”

T’Challa stops cold, the desire to finally touch his soulmate battling with his need to not upset him. In the end, he cannot resist the urge, not with Erik so close. Not when he only needs a few more steps to be within his reach. Everything in him burns with the need to touch his soulmate, to take him into his arms and hold him close, to seal the bond. 

He cannot tell if Erik is resisting the pull of the bond or if he genuinely does not feel its effects. The only way he’ll know for sure is if T’Challa touches him. If he is wrong and this bond only goes one way, he will deal with the consequences.

T’Challa hesitates for a moment before stepping forward.

Erik takes a step back, but doesn’t shy away when T’Challa comes to a halt in front of him. He eyes T’Challa guardedly as if anticipating his next move. 

T’Challa slowly raises his hand, lets it hover a few millimeters from Erik’s face. He can feel the heat radiating off the other man’s body, hear the rapid thumping of his heart. He wants to bury his face against the crook of Erik’s neck, breathe in the residual scent of gunpowder and blood, lick a line up the curve of his throat, get lost in the intoxicating taste of salt and sweat.  

Erik stares intently at his face, then slowly turns his gaze to the hand lingering so close to his face.

T’Challa lightly presses his finger against Erik’s cheek. They both gasp at the initial feel of skin against skin. A jolt of electricity surges through his body, setting every nerve ending aflame. The colors around him burn impossibly bright, become sharper, more vibrant.

_Finally,_ T’Challa thinks, letting out a breathy sigh as his finger glides against his soulmate’s supple skin. He keeps his touch feather-light as he traces the planes of Erik’s face. He runs his finger across Erik’s broad forehead, the arch of his eyebrow, down his wide set nose, and the mustache that frames his plush lips. T’Challa caresses the curve of his cheekbone, the scruff of his sharp jawline, spreads his hand out so his fingers cup Erik’s jaw. “What is your Wakandan name?”

“Oh fuck,” Erik groans as he leans into T’Challa’s touch.

T’Challa lightly clasps the back of Erik’s neck, gently kneads his nape before spearing his fingers into his dreadlocks. A tiny moan slips from his lips, making the muscles of T’Challa’s abdomen tighten. “Tell me your name.”

Erik leans back into his hand, whispers, “N’Jadaka.”

“N’Jadaka,” T’Challa murmurs, rolling the syllables around his tongue. He tugs on N’Jadaka’s locs, tilts his head back to nose at the curve of his throat.

N’Jadaka flinches away from his touch, swiftly puts distance between them. “You need to keep your hands to yourself, cuz.”

He watches N’Jadaka glare at him from no more than a few feet away. The gap feels like a chasm. His need to touch becomes almost unbearable. The desire to stroke every inch of N’Jadaka’s skin. To lick that pulse point on his neck. To kiss him. _Bast_ , does he want to kiss him. The need to complete the bond rushes through him. With his soulmate so close, he can no longer ignore the urge to touch, to seal the bond. 

“Do you not feel the pull, N’Jadaka?” T’Challa asks, unable to keep the desire he felt from coloring his voice as he stalks toward his cousin.  
  
“It’s called self-control, asshole,” N’Jadaka retorts, eyes narrowed into slits. “That’s why I’m over here. I don’t want any of this. I was perfectly fine as an Achromatic.”

T’Challa flinches back. “You cannot mean that,” he says with conviction.

Arms crossed against his chest, N’Jadaka shrugs nonchalantly. “What’s so good about seein’ in color. Lived my whole life Achromatic. I have no use for colors.”  
  
T’Challa’s brows furrow into a frown. It seems he needs to remind his cousin exactly what happens that the beginning stages of a colorbond. “Now that we’ve touched, you must know that the need to bond will not dissipate until the bond is sealed.”

“Not if I kill you first,” N’Jadaka responds hotly.

“Could you do it, N’Jadaka?” T’Challa asks softly, “Could you kill your soulmate in cold blood?”    
  
Unable to resist any longer T’Challa steps forward, closes the distance between them once again. This time, N’Jadaka doesn't protest when T'Challa crosses that imaginary line.  
  
“Put us both out of our misery, seal the bond with me.” T'Challa entreats. He reaches out and touches him then, thumb caressing his cheekbone.

“You wanna be a Trichromat that badly, huh?” N’Jadaka asks, stepping out of reach of his hand.

“I have waited my entire life for you,” T’Challa freely admits. He has spent much of his adult life searching for his other half. “Do you not want to be whole? To ease the ache inside of you?”

“I’ve gone without,” N’Jadaka answers in studied carelessness. “It’s no skin off my back.” 

“Are you being this stubborn to spite me?” T’Challa asks flatly. With every advancing step T’Challa takes, N’Jadaka takes one backward, keeps himself just out of T’Challa’s reach. T’Challa is tired, every passing minute he isn’t touching N’Jadaka feels like a lifetime. He aches with the need for contact, to feel N’Jadaka’s skin against his. “You are only hurting yourself in the end.”

“Wow. What a great pitch,” N’Jadaka states sarcastically as they continue to circle each other. “Bond with me or we’ll end up raping each other.”

His frustration spread, fanning into anger. “I would never-”

“That’s the sad reality of it,” N’Jadaka cuts in, his tone bitter. “One of us is gonna snap and it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

“So you understand the consequences of waiting too long,” T’Challa says, voice filled with frustration. “Why are you resisting?”

“Because I don’t want _you_ ,” N’Jadaka snaps, “I’ve never wanted to meet my soulmate.”

T’Challa’s world crashes down around him. His heart shudders and clenches at the vehemence in his soulmate’s voice. At the utter rejection. “I do not understand. Why would you not wish to-?”

“Soulmates are a liability, cuz. I don’t need that baggage.”

“I am not baggage, N’Jadaka. Nor will I ever be,” T’Challa snaps, fuming in outrage at his disparaging tone. “Time is running out for the both of us now that we’ve made contact.”

“Whose fault is that?” N’Jadaka retorts contemptuously. “I wasn't the one who couldn't keep his hands to himself.”

T’Challa lets out a frustrated breath, paces away from N’Jakada before he gives in to the urge to just take what he wanted. To put them both out of their misery and seal the bond. He is beyond frustrated at his soulmate. In all his years of imagining their meeting and bonding, this scenario has never crossed his mind. That his soulmate would not only reject him but wish to kill him as well.  

Whatever the other man said, T’Challa knows that N’Jadaka cannot continue to fight off the compulsion to bond. Eventually, he will have to give in. That is the nature of the bonds.

People either consider the bond a curse or a blessing. As addicting as any drug, once a pair of Trichromats meet, their fates are sealed. From that first meeting of eyes, that first powerful surge of dopamine, the brain’s structure and function changes. Seeing the Spectrum is forever linked to that one person. It is compounded by the rush of euphoria that accompanies every touch a pair shares. There is an incentive to stay together until the bond settles or lose the ability to see color. T’Challa believes the bond is a blessing and he will do whatever is necessary to keep it.

T’Challa could simply outwait him, wait until N’Jadaka could no longer fight the urge and take what he wants. Or he could negotiate with his soulmate and find a compromise that works for them both.

“How about this,” T’Challa starts, turning to face N’Jadaka. “We seal the bond, and if afterward, you want nothing to do with me, I will not pursue you.”

“Nah,” N’Jadaka responds indolently, “No deal. I still want you dead.”

“Your plan," T’Challa says, feeling an ache begin in the center of his chest. "It hasn’t changed now that you know we are soulmates?”

N’Jadaka scoffs derisively, “I haven’t trained my entire life just to be stopped by something as inconvenient as a soulmate.”

“All I am asking, N’Jadaka is that you stay here with me.” When N’Jadaka makes a move to interrupt him, T’Challa holds up a finger to halt whatever he is going to say. “Just until the bond cements itself. Allow me to court you. And if afterward you still wish to challenge me for the throne, then we will fight.”

“No deal,” he responds immediately.

“Is this not what you wanted?” T’Challa asks incredulously.

“You keep changing the terms of this deal,” N’Jadaka replies, lifting one shoulder in an artful shrug.

“I cannot help but want to be near you,” T’Challa answers tightly, gripping his hands to keep them from reaching for N'Jadaka. "I will do what I must."

“So you're resorting to manipulation?” N’Jadaka questions drily, “Telling me what I want to hear.”

T’Challa swallows hard and forces his features into a smooth mask. “That is not my intention.”

N’Jadaka raises an eyebrow. “The way I see it,” N'Jadaka derides, “the only one benefiting from this is you.”

Considering N’Jadaka is no more capable of keeping his hands off T’Challa than T’Challa is of keeping his off him, T’Challa refuses to back down. “We are soulmates you and I,” he states, stare unwavering, “half of a whole. Everything that I am is yours.”

“You keep saying that shit like it's supposed to mean something,” N’Jadaka retorts scoffingly.

“I do not understand you, N’Jadaka,” T’Challa replies, ignoring the animal impulse that insists he just take what he wants, consequences be damned. “What must I do to convince you that my intentions are pure?”

“If we’re gonna do this, I need a guarantee.”

“My word is not enough for you?” T’Challa grimly demands, anger simmering low in his gut.

“You've already proven that you're not above changing the rules to fit your needs.”

“We are soulmates,” T’Challa responds fiercely, trying but failing to maintain his composure, “I would never-"

“Listen,” N’Jadaka interrupts, “I don't know how this soulmate shit works ‘round here in fairytale land. But out there, it means jack shit. You wanna court me? Make me your little consort, then I need somethin’ in exchange.”

“What would you want from me?” T’Challa desperately asks as he takes a cautious step toward his soulmate. He cannot resist the tug inside that pulls him towards N’Jadaka; the need to be near him almost compulsive at this point.

T’Challa isn’t sure N’Jadaka would answer, but finally he grudgingly says, “Proof that you’re not just gonna take what you want and renege on our deal.”

“If that is all you require,” T’Challa replies, sincerity coloring his voice, “then you have it.” T’Challa will give him everything he wants. Everything he has.

N’Jadaka says nothing in response. T’Challa can feel the judgment in his gaze, as N’Jadaka gauges and evaluates the truthfulness of his promise.

“Fine,” N’Jadaka responds nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just put T’Challa through the wringer.

T’Challa sighs. “We are in accord?”

N'Jadaka levels T’Challa with a hard look, “If you try to fuck me over, you won’t live to regret it.”

Neither of them moves. There is a long awkward pause between them where neither seems to know what to do next. Where to go from here.

The compulsive desire to be near his soulmate, to finally seal the bond, rides him hard. T’Challa squares his shoulders, approaches N’Jadaka slowly, the fear that the other man will once again change his mind makes him cautious.

T’Challa watches mesmerizingly as the tip of N’Jadaka’s tongue swipes at his lips, moistening them in preparation for T’Challa’s kiss as his gaze lowers to T’Challa’s mouth. When he looks up, lust flashes across his face. Eyes at half-mast, he asks, “What are you waiting for? An invitation?”

T’Challa takes that as his cue to finally touch his soulmate without fear of being repudiated. Hesitantly, he reaches out and massages the column of N’Jadaka’s throat, shuddering as electricity shoots through him. He wraps an arm around N’Jadaka’s waist, pulls him flush against his body. N’Jakada’s arms slide around his neck, T’Challa’s free hand finds its way into his hair.

“You gonna kiss me or what?” N’Jadaka asks huskily.

Groaning at the command, T’Challa’s head lowers toward his. A thrill of desire goes through him like a bolt of lightning at the first brush of their lips. N’Jadaka gasps against his lips. And T’Challa cannot help but grip the back of his head and hold him close.

N’Jadaka’s lips are soft and sweet beneath his. When a breathy sigh escapes his lips, T’Challa breathes it in; the first brush of his tongue against N’Jadaka’s is met with a low hum of approval at the back of his throat. T’Challa licks his way into his mouth, runs his tongue over his teeth, explores every corner of his mouth. The kiss quickly devolves from there. It's a sloppy, reckless thing, all teeth, and tongue and open-mouthed kisses.

It feels like hours have past before they seperate. The impulsive need to bury his face into N’Jadaka’s throat returns and T’Challa cannot help but to give in to it. He tightens his grip on N’Jadaka’s body, nuzzles at his neck. Inhaling the scent of his soulmate, T’Challa pulls it into his lungs and commits it to memory.

N’Jadaka tugs at his nape, kisses him harshly, challenging him to keep up with the bruising crush of his lips. He trails kisses down T'Challa chin, the underside of his jaw. Panting shallowly against T’Challa parted lips he says, “That was better than I imagined.”

He cups N’Jadaka’s cheek, traces the plush line of his mouth using his thumb, presses fleeting kisses to his temple. “You are everything I've ever wanted.”

“You're a damn sap,” N’Jadaka mutters, tilting his head up for another kiss. T’Challa’s lips are gentle as they press into his. This one is soft, wet, and slow.

T’Challa wants to savor him, spend hours kissing him, touching him. He could spend the rest of his life sharing these kisses with him. 

**XIV.**  


They sit on the Great Mound together side by side.

N’Jadaka sits next to him with his arms propped out on his knees, chin resting on an elbow while T’Challa sits in seiza. Their attention focused solely on the view in front of them. Neither have ever seen a sunset in Spectrum.  

“My Pops used to say, Wakanda is the most beautiful place he’s ever seen.” N’Jadaka says wistfully, a small smile graces his face as he stares rapturously at the setting sun. “He promised he was going to show it to me one day.”

The shifting hues as the sun touches down across the horizon sets the sky ablaze with a myriad shade of oranges, red, and soft pinks.

It is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. 

“It’s beautiful,” N’Jadaka breathes, dark brown eyes wide and full of wonder as the crimson glow of the sunset settles all around them. 

“Yes,” T’Challa answers as he stares at his soulmate bathed in the dying rays of his first Wakandan sunset. “It’s breathtaking.”


	2. fan art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> now with fan art by the lovely [amikoroyaiart](https://amikoroyaiart.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> If you managed to make it through all this, thanks for reading. Soulmate tropes are my favorite. I had a lot of fun writing this.
> 
> The requested prompt was: _soulmate AU where you see colour only after you meet your soulmate: ideally this would be set in the canon universe, maybe it’s always been a secret guilt for T'Challa to never have been able to see the rich colours of his homeland or to fully appreciate the fine garments and decorations worn by the other tribes? Except then he sees the man in the mask for the first time in South Korea and he panics because his soulmate is gone and what if he never finds him again. And even if he does, how can he have a soulmate who is willing to protect Klaue?_


End file.
